The Fifth Avenue Series Boxed Set (135 page)

She nodded.

“You’ve got their names.”

“I do.”

“When you touched me in there, what did you see.”

“Fire,” she said.
 
“People burning.
 
People dying.”

And so he grabbed her forearm.
 
“Jennifer Barnes,” he said, seeking her face.
 
“You’ve met her before.
 
We’ve been here together.
 
I remember you telling me how much you liked her.
 
You told me she was the one.”
 
He looked down at his hand.
 
“What do you see now?”

“Nothing,” she said.

“What do you mean by nothing?”

“Blackness,” she said.

“What does blackness mean to you?”

“Death,” she said.
 
“All I see is death.”

“Whose death?”

“Yours,” she said.
 
“It’s your death.
 
Why won’t you listen to me?
 
Why won’t you believe me?”
 
She pointed at Maggie, who was standing next to Marty.
 
“She is going to kill you and you won’t listen to me.”

Maggie was about to intervene, but there was no stopping Roberta.

“I saw those fires,” she said to Marty.
 
“I was right and still you won’t listen to me.
 
If you leave here now, if you go with her, she will kill you.
 
I’m as certain of that as I’ve ever been certain about anything in my life.”
 
She looked at Maggie, whose face had gone pale in the heat of Roberta’s words.
 
“You’re going to kill him.”

Maggie held up a hand.
 
“Look,” she said.
 
“I’ve kept my mouth shut since you’ve started your barrage against me.
 
I’ve tried to be polite because he’s your friend, but I’m through with it.
 
Stop saying that now.”

“I won’t.
 
I know what I saw.”

“I don’t care what you saw.
 
It’s ridiculous.
 
I’m not going to kill him.”

“Yes, you are.”
 
Roberta reached out and touched the back of Maggie Cain’s hand.
 
Then, defeated, she dropped her hand at her side.
 
“You’re going to shoot him, my friend is going to die and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.”

CHAPTER FORTY

11:02 p.m.

With the Audi’s top down and the warm city air running through his hair, Wolfhagen felt in the moments before he orchestrated Carra and Ira’s deaths that he was on the cusp of the greatest rush of freedom he had felt in years.
 
Certainly since he walked away from Lompoc.

Soon, he would be through with them.
 
Carra especially.
 
At last, she would forever be out of his life.
 
And while he loved to watch, a part of him now was considering doing the job himself.
 
He felt that strongly about her death.
 
He should be the one who killed her, not somebody else who wouldn’t understand the pleasure of it.

Only once before had he physically taken a life.
 
It wasn’t something he hired out, as he usually did.
 
Instead, it was all him.
 
He considered it part of his personal growth—an act that had changed him.
 
And when it was over, there was no remorse.
 
Just another high to fuel the high he already was enjoying.

He thought back to that day, when the feds were closing in on him, the old Bull Pen was in decline and he had used one mother of a knife on one backstabbing mother fucker’s throat.
 

He’d cut so deeply, he almost severed the man’s head.
 
But given the weight of the man’s betrayal, it was worth it.
 
It also was easy—too easy—and he had delighted in the man’s clotted, piggish squeals while Wolfhagen himself stood drenched in the fountains of blood fanning from his throat and into the room.
 

He thought back to that night and remembered that the fun hadn’t begun there.
 
It had started outside, in his limousine, when he smashed Maggie Cain’s head through a window and permanently disfigured her face.

It was one of his finest days.
 
But tonight would top it all.
 
There was, in fact, no question that it would
kill
it.

He was driving up Central Park West moving toward 83rd.
 
He was listening to club music on Sirius and jonesing for a taste of meth, which he’d sworn himself off, at least for tonight.
 

Need to be clear.
 
Gotta be clear.
 
Have to be clear.
 
Can’t fuck this up.

Occasionally, as police cars from all over the city raced down the street with their sirens blaring and their lights flashing, he had to pull to the right to let them pass.
 
But with so much chaos unfolding on the east side of the Park, he didn’t mind.
 
It was the distraction he needed.
 
Above the Park was a warm, flicking glow from all of those awful fires he’d seen on TV and the idea of them burning warmed him.

He clicked off the radio, turned left onto 83rd and slowly approached the new Bull Pen, which was housed in an elegant, unassuming pre-war building that looked exactly as it should look—like a residence.
 

If Carra had done her job correctly, the entire building would be sound-proofed, including the entrance.
 
If music was playing anywhere inside, you’d never know it by opening the front door because barriers would be in place to keep the sound out.
 

You’d also never hear the music if you passed the building, or especially if you lived on either side of it.
 
By all appearances, this was the quietest house on the block, which was remarkable given the sheer number of people who showed up late on those occasional Saturday nights when Carra opened.

As he drove past it, he looked around him on the sidewalks.
 
It didn’t appear that anyone was waiting for him, but that didn’t mean they weren’t already here.
 
He could imagine his little assassin minions tucked away in dark corners, watching him.
 
He could feel their eyes on him as he reached the end of the street.
 
He was anxious to meet them, but he was more anxious to either watch Carra get mutilated by the kindness of one of his strangers—or by someone she used to call her husband.
 

It should be me
, he thought.
 
I should be the one holding her down and gutting her.
 
I should be the last person she sees.
 
Let them take Ira.

And there it was.
 
He’d made up his mind.
 
That’s how it would be.
 
It would be he.

He drove across Amsterdam, shot down 83rd and then turned left onto Broadway.
 
He cruised to 81st Street and took another left.
 
Even if there had been a place to park on 83rd, which there wasn’t, he at least wanted to be a block or two over and have the ability to run if he had to.
 
And in spite of how Carra had cut his feet, Wolfhagen could run.
 
He might be older now, but he was fast.
 
If anyone came after him, he was fairly certain that even in this state, he could get to this car with enough distance between them and take off.
 

He rolled down the street, found a spot that would be too tight for most cars to squeeze into, but this car was tiny and it fit with some maneuvering.
 
He lowered the vanity mirror and checked his crowded teeth.
 
He cupped a hand over his mouth and checked his breath, which smelled of peppermint.
 
He wouldn’t look directly at his face.
 
This was as good as it got.

He stepped out of the car and started walking toward the Park, which was two blocks away.
 
When he reached it, he turned left and was surprised by what he saw—crowds of people rushing toward him.
 
When he drove by moments ago, none of this was happening.
 
But word was out.
 
New York was burning.
 
As the avalanche of good will swarmed around him and occasionally threatened to topple him, he shouldered his way toward 83rd and couldn’t help being amused.

They were running toward the fires, thinking they could help.
 
They ran past him with the same haunted faces they wore when the terrorists struck the Twin Towers.
 
They actually thought they could do something.
 
They actually wanted to risk their own lives in an effort to help.
 
It was as incredible to him as it was foreign.
 
If a gas main broke, which was possible given the level of destruction he’d seen, some of these people were rushing to their own deaths.
 
It made no sense to him what they were doing.
 
Why die to help a total stranger?

He moved left, as close as he could get to the buildings, and removed from his pants pocket the cell phone the hot goon had given him.
 
He pressed his hand against the side of the light jacket he wore and felt the gun hidden there.
 
In the air was the distinct smell of smoke.
 
All around him, motion, reaction, propulsion.
 
He tapped out a number and waited.
 
Second ring.
 
“Max?”

“You both there?”

“Just waiting on you.”

“Did you see me drive by a minute ago?”

“We saw you.”

“And not even a friendly wave.
 
I’m on foot, about a block away.
 
I’m assuming there’s no crowd or activity yet.”

“Nothing yet.
 
But all the shades are drawn.”

“It’s too early,” he said.
 
“They’re getting ready.
 
They’re probably squeezing into their cute leather suits.”

“How is this going to work?”

“I’m taking Carra.
 
You two take Lasker.
 
This needs to be clean and quick so you can have the rest of the night to do your thing.
 
Inside that door will be security.
 
They’ll be armed.
 
You stay behind me.
 
Whoever is there will recognize me.
 
They’ll be startled that I’m there, which is my moment to act.
 
We’ll take him down and check the room for others.
 
If they’re not right there, they will be lurking somewhere.
 
Security is tight.
 
Try to take them out quietly.
 
It’s our best shot at finding Carra and Lasker, and finishing what we came for.”
 

He rounded the corner onto 83rd.
 
“I’m here.”

He clicked off his cell, but saw no one.
 
He moved down the sidewalk and listened as footsteps fell in line behind him.
 
They were good.
 
He stopped and turned to face them.
 
The man came forward first, his hand held out.

“Spocatti,” he said, shaking Wolfhagen’s hand.

The woman came forward and did the same.